  It was near the close of a beautiful day in early June that Joyce Crawford was once more standing by the gate, looking down the road. It is nearly two years since we saw her last. She has grown taller, more womanly, even more beautiful, if that were possible. The sound of war had ceased in the land. No longer was the fierce raider abroad; yet Joyce Crawford stood looking down that road as intently as she did that eventful evening when Calhoun Pennington came riding to the door. She had not heard a word from him since his escape; nor had she expected to hear. All that she could do was to scan the papers for his name among the killed or captured Confederates. But the Northern papers published few names of Confederates known to have been killed, except the highest and most distinguished officers. During these two years Joyce’s heart had been true to her raider lover. He had said that he would come when the war was over, that the thunder of the last cannon would hardly have ceased to reverberate through the land before he would be by her side. It was two months since Lee had surrendered yet he had not come. That [pg 319] This June evening, as she stood looking down the road, her thoughts were in the past. Once more, in imagination, Morgan’s raiders came riding by; she beheld the country terror-stricken; men, women, and children fleeing from—they hardly knew what. Once more she heard the sound of distant battle, then down the road that little cloud of dust which grew larger and larger, until the horse with its stricken rider came to view. How vividly she remembered it all, how real it seemed to her! She actually held her breath and listened to catch the sound of battle; she strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of that little cloud of dust. SHE HELD HER BREATH AND LISTENED TO CATCH THE SOUND OF BATTLE SHE HELD HER BREATH AND LISTENED TO CATCH THE SOUND OF BATTLE No sound of battle came to her ears, but away down the road, as far as she could see, arose a little cloud of dust. Her heart gave a great throb; why she could not tell, for she had seen a thousand clouds of dust arise from that road, as she watched and waited. The little cloud grew larger. Now she could see it was caused by a single horseman, one who rode swiftly, and sat his horse with rare grace. She stood with hands pressed to her bosom, her eyes dilating, her breath coming in quick, short gasps. Before she realized it, the rider had thrown himself from his horse, and with the cry of “Joyce! [pg 320] “Were you watching for me, Joyce?” asked Calhoun. “I have watched for you every night since Lee surrendered. I began to think you had forgotten—no, not that, I feared you had been slain,” she exclaimed, in a trembling voice. “Death only could have kept me from you, Joyce. In camp and battle your image was in my heart. The thought of seeing you has sweetened the bitterness of defeat. The war did not end as I thought it would, but it has brought me to you—to you. Now that the war is over, there is nothing to separate us, is there, Joyce?” She grew as pale as death. She had not thought of her father before—he believed that the South had been treated too leniently, that treason should be punished. All that the South had suffered he believed to be a just punishment for her manifold sins. If the Rebels’ lives were spared, they should be thankful, and ask nothing more. Joyce knew how her father felt. Not a word had ever passed between them relative to Calhoun since his escape; but the father knew much more than Joyce [pg 321] Calhoun saw the change in Joyce, how she drew from him, how pale she had grown, and he asked, “What is it, Joyce? Why, you shrink from me, and tremble like a leaf. Tell me, Joyce, what is it?” “My father!” she whispered, “Oh, I fear—I fear!” “Fear what, darling?” “That he will drive you from me; that he will forbid me seeing you!” “For what?” “Because you fought against your country; because you were one of Morgan’s men.” “What would he do? Hang me, if he could?” asked Calhoun, bitterly. “No, no, but—oh, Calhoun, let us hope for the best. Perhaps when he sees you it will be different. You must see him. He and aunt have gone to New Lisbon; but they will be at home presently.” With many misgivings Calhoun allowed his horse to be put up, and he and Joyce enjoyed an hour’s sweet converse before her father and aunt returned. When her father entered the room Joyce, with a palpitating heart, said: “Father, let me introduce you to Mr. Calhoun Pennington, of Danville, Kentucky. He is the young officer whom we cared for when wounded. He has come to thank us for the kindness shown him.” [pg 322]Mr. Crawford bowed coldly, and said, without extending his hand, “Mr. Pennington need not have taken the trouble; the incident has long since been forgotten. But supper is ready; I trust Mr. Pennington will honor us by remaining and partaking of the repast with us.” Calhoun could do nothing but accept, yet he felt he was an unwelcome guest. As for Joyce, she knew not what to think; she could only hope for the best. The meal passed almost in silence. Mr. Crawford was scrupulously polite, but his manner was cold and constrained. Poor Joyce tried to talk and appear merry, but had to give it up as a failure. Every one was glad when the meal was through. As they arose from the table, Mr. Crawford said: “Joyce, remain with your aunt, I wish to have a private conversation with Mr. Pennington.” Calhoun followed him into the parlor. He knew that what was coming would try his soul more than charging up to the mouth of a flaming cannon. The first question asked nearly took Calhoun’s breath away, it was so sudden and unexpected. It was, “Young man, why am I honored with this visit?” “As your daughter said, to thank you for the kindness I received while an enforced guest in your house,” answered Calhoun, and then he mentally cursed himself for his cowardice. “Guests who leave as unceremoniously as you did do not generally return to express their thanks,” answered Mr. Crawford, dryly. “It was [pg 323] “What do you mean?” asked Calhoun, in surprise. “I mean that leaving as you did subjected my daughter to much unjust criticism. An honorable man would have gone to prison rather than subjected the young lady to whom he owed his life to idle remarks.” Calhoun felt every nerve in him tingle. His hot blood rushed through his veins like fire, he clenched his hands until his nails buried themselves in the palms. How he longed to throttle him and force the insult down his throat! But he was an old man; he was Joyce’s father. Then, as Joyce had never told him it was she who had planned the escape, it was not for him to speak. Controlling himself by a mighty effort, he calmly said: “Mr. Crawford, I am sorry you think so poorly of me, for I came here to ask of you the greatest boon you have to give on earth, that is your consent that I may pay my addresses to your daughter, and in due time make her my wife. I love her with my whole soul, and have reason to know that my love is returned.” “And I had rather see my daughter dead than married to a Rebel and traitor, especially to one of Morgan’s men. You have my answer,” said Mr. Crawford, angrily. “Why call me Rebel and traitor?” asked Calhoun. “Whatever I may have been, I am not that [pg 324] “And the government will find out its mistake. Your punishment has not been what your sins deserve. Your lands should be taken from you and given to the poor beings you have enslaved these centuries. But we need not quarrel. You have had my answer concerning my daughter. Now go, and never let me see you again.” “Mr. Crawford,” said Calhoun, rising, “you have been very outspoken with me, and I will be equally so with you. As to the terms you say should have been given the South, I will say that had such been even hinted at, every man, woman, and child in the South would have died on their hearthstones before yielding. But this is idle talk, as I trust there are but few in the North so remorseless as you. Now, as to your daughter; if she is willing, I shall marry her in spite of you. There is one raider of Morgan still in the saddle, and he will not cease his raid until he has carried away the fairest flower in Ohio.” “Go,” cried Mr. Crawford, losing his temper, “go before I am forced to use harsher means.” Before Calhoun could reply, before he could take a step, there was a swish of woman’s garments, and before the father’s astonished eyes there stood his daughter by the side of her lover. Her form was drawn to its full height, her bosom was heaving, her eyes were flashing. Taking her lover’s hand, [pg 325] The father staggered and grew deadly pale. “O God,” he moaned. “I have no daughter now. Child, child, much as I love you, would that you were lying beside your mother.” Leaving the side of Calhoun, Joyce went to her father, and taking his hands in hers said, “Father, grant me but a few moments’ private interview with Captain Pennington, and I promise I will never marry him without your free and full consent. Nay, more, without your consent I will never see him again or correspond with him.” “Joyce, Joyce!” cried Calhoun, “what are you doing? What are you promising?” and he started toward her, but she motioned him back. “Father! Father!” she wailed, “don’t you hear?” Mr. Crawford looked up. “Joyce, what did you say? What do you mean?” he whispered. Joyce repeated what she had said. “And you mean it, Joyce? you are to stay with me?” he asked, eagerly. “Yes, but I must have a private interview with Captain Pennington before he goes. Then it is for you to say whether I shall ever meet him again or not.” Calhoun stood by while this conversation was [pg 326] The father arose and left the room. No sooner was he gone than she turned, and with a low cry sank into her lover’s arms. “Joyce, Joyce, what have you done?” cried Calhoun. “Fly with me now! Let me take you to my Kentucky home. Father will welcome you. You will not lack the love of a father.” Joyce raised her head, her eyes swimming in tears, but full of love and tenderness. “Hear me, Calhoun,” she said, “and then you will not blame me. We cannot marry now, we are both too young. You told me that you and your cousin were to go to Harvard. That means four long years. Before that time my father may give his consent to our union.” “But you told him you would not see me, would not even write. That means banishment.” “Not from my heart,” she whispered. “Calhoun, for you to attempt to see me now, or to write to me, would be but to increase my father’s opposition. I trust to time, and by filial obedience to win him. It is a fearful thing, Calhoun, to be disowned by one’s own father, and by a father who loves one as I know my father loves me. It would kill him if I left him, and the knowledge would make me unhappy, even with you. Calhoun, do you love me?” “As my life,” he answered, clasping her once more to his breast. “And to be banished entirely [pg 327] “Calhoun, did you love me when I aided you to escape?” “You know I did, why do you ask?” “Yet you left me for two long years, left me to fight for principles which you held dear. What if, for love of me, I had asked you to resign from the army, to forsake the cause for which you were fighting?” “I couldn’t have done it, Joyce. I couldn’t have done it, even for your love. But you would not ask me to do such a craven act.” “And yet you ask me to forsake my father, to be false to what I know is right.” “Joyce, how can I answer you? I am dumb before your logic. But how can I pass the weary years which are to come?” “You have passed two since we parted, and your college years need not be weary. They will not be weary. Have faith. When father learns how good, how noble, how true you are, he will give his consent. And Mark, my brother Mark, he will plead for me, I know.” “Joyce, I am like a criminal awaiting pardon—a pardon which may never come.” “Don’t say that. Now, Calhoun, we must part. Remember you are not to try to see me or write to me. But the moment father relents I will say, Come. It will not be long. Now go.” Calhoun clasped her once more in his arms, pressed the farewell kiss on her lips, and left her. |
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